The Killing Dove

Ping!

The glass jar shifted slightly as a lead pellet ricocheted off its rim.

“That’s a hit.” said the boy holding the rifle. He was fourteen years old, growing bony but still soft-skinned and as beautiful as a child.

“It didn’t break, Dan. It’s my turn now,” said Cley, who was standing next to him. Two years younger, he was slight-framed with a large head and an active, frowning brow. The boys knew each other well; Daniel’s father was dating Cley’s mother, and neither boy was happy about it.

“Two turns each.”

“No, you said one turn each. You’ve had yours.”

“Fine. Here. But be careful.”

“I know how to shoot. My grampa taught me.”

 The younger boy set his sights down the dark, oiled barrel of the pellet gun. The glass jar was sitting in the crook of a tree branch, twenty feet away. He breathed out slowly like his grandfather had shown him. He wanted to hit the jar, to smash it to pieces right there in front of Daniel.

As his finger gently rounded the trigger, he saw a flutter of movement in the leaves of the tree above. Through the flitting green foliage, he could see the grey movement of a bird. Without thinking he lifted his aim until the bird’s breast came into the sight.

“You’re aiming too high!” Daniel shouted.

Cley squeezed the trigger and the gun coughed a single, wheezing crack. There was an explosion of feathers as the bird took flight, but only for a moment before it fell with a heavy sound to the floor.

 “Where you aiming for that?” Daniel asked, confused but somewhat impressed by the younger boy.

“I didn’t mean to... I mean I didn’t think I would hit it,” Cley stammered, trying to quell the rising panic he felt as the bird flapped weakly around in the dirt.

“I think it’s still alive,” Daniel was bending over the injured animal.

It was a ring-necked turtle dove, smaller now in its suffering. One wing was extended and a globule of bright blood showed where the pellet had gone in through its shoulder.

“Is it going to be ok?” Tears prickled Cley’s eyes and he fought back a racking sob.

Hearing the emotion in the boy’s voice, Daniel turned to look at him.

“No, you broke its wing. You have to kill it now.”

“Can you do it, please?”

“No, you must.” Daniel’s voice was hard and smooth.

The younger boy sucked in his breath and looking at Daniel he saw something that he had never seen in a boy’s face before. He had no brothers. He’d lived with his mother alone, and spent most of his childhood with his girl cousins.

“Please?” Cley asked, whimpering slightly. “Please can you do it?”

“Ok, fine.” Daniel said, but instead of loading the gun and delivering the final shot at close range, he picked the injured bird and put it in the crook of the tree, on top of the glass jar.

“What are you doing?” Cley asked, presentiment sending a shard of ice into his belly.

“Gonna shoot it,” Daniel replied, in the same gunmetal voice as before.

“Can’t we shoot it on the ground? Like close up?”

“This’ll be more fun.”

Daniel always had been interested in killing. When his mom left and his dad was working in his office, the boy had walked through the house and shot every gecko off the wall with his BB gun. Sometimes he would spend hours hunting the ceiling corners around the lights and examining the limp, translucent bodies of the geckos with blown-out bellies or smashed-in backs.

Daniel turned and walked back and dragged a faded wrought-iron lawn chair to where they had been standing. With the composure of a seasoned sniper, he knelt down over the chair and rested the pellet gun on the metal arms. His dad had given it to him after a summer of chores. The bird was limp between the Y-shaped bow of the tree, its neck bent and head hanging, one wide eye visible and alive to the world.

“I’ll go first,” Daniel said. Not waiting for an answer. He was activated by the blood and the proximity of death and fumbled with a little mushroom pellet, its tiny flat head seeming powdery and hateful to Cley. Once the gun was loaded he knelt, squinted through one eye, and fired.

“Dammit!” he cried.

The shot had gone high and wide through the gap. He loaded again. This time he aimed carefully, lining the bird up alone the barrel like he had seen them do on the movies. He pulled the trigger and there was a soft thud into the tree.

“You hit the branch,” Cley said in an alert, even voice, despite the horror he felt of the situation, he knew it was a bad shot.

“You go then!” Daniel shouted, shoving the gun towards him.

The smaller boy tried to back away, but the dark wooden butt of the rifle was pushed hard into his chest. He looked up, and seeing the anger twisting in Daniel's face, took the gun. It took him some effort to snap the spring-loaded middle open and pull it down to load it, and when Daniel held out a pellet he took it carefully and loaded it into the barrel. Cley didn’t want to think about what would happen if the pellet struck the bird, but more than that he didn’t want it to carry on suffering. He walked slowly to the white chair and balanced the thin barrel against it. There was a small scraping sound between the two metals and he knew his grandfather wouldn’t approve; of the naked barrel touching the chair or of what they were doing.

He lined his target up, the front pointer just above the gap in the sight further back. In his mind, he could see the trajectory of the bullet from the gun to the bird. He put his finger lightly on the trigger and corrected a fraction, then squeezed. The pellet sped away and they heard nothing but the faintest pfft sound, before the bird arched and fell, this time dead before it hit the ground. 

Cley looked up at Daniel as he felt their lives bound together. They were brothers now, brothers in the blood of death.